


A Holsom Fangirl Carol

by redscudery



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Author Commentary, Breaking the Fourth Wall, Christmas, Contains real fangirls, Crossover, Friends to Lovers, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, M/M, Metafiction, Patriarchy, Silly, Swearing Children, and the smashing thereof, and their offspring, everyone hates heteronormativity, hence the swearing children, referenced Chowder/Farmer, referenced Shitty/Lardo, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 17:54:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9134842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: Adam Birkholtz is very bisexual. Very. But he’d chosen to shut the door on his attraction to Ransom for a few reasons, starting with Rans being the best bro ever and ending with...something. Anyhow, he’d made the decision, and he’d have to like it, because he wouldn’t go back on it. It was finals week and Ransom loved March, so no sense upsetting that apple cart, and frankly he was better off by himself with Ransom as his friend than all alone. If Dorothy Zbornak could do it, so could he.At least, that's what he thinks. But then, he's visited by the spirits of fangirls past, present, and future.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Emma Grant (emmagrant01)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmagrant01/gifts).



> Warning: contains real fangirls. My thanks to Turifer, Tiptoe, Rhyolight, Darthrami, Suze, MapleLeafCameos, Tea, esterbrook, Irollforinitiative, UrbanHymnal and Emmagrant for allowing themselves to be included in this fic.
> 
> Thank you to Turifer for the great beta job!

Aunt Marlene was dead, to begin with. There was no doubt about that. Holster had heard the news with sadness but not surprise; she had been ill a long time. He went to her funeral and mourned her; she was dead, buried, and gone. This you must know, or none of this story will seem as remarkable as it really is, later on. 

 

Of course Holster missed her; he couldn’t bear to deactivate her Facebook profile, and so it remained intact, even two years after her death. This is where our story begins.

 

Holster was sprawled on the Haus couch, one snowy day in finals week, looking at her profile and hating the world, when Ransom bounded in.

“Bro!” he shouted, and leaped. Holster dropped his phone and held out his arms reflexively. He regretted it instantly; the snow from Ransom’s jacket soaked through his t-shirt.

“Bro!” 

“BRO.” Ransom hugged him tight. 

“Why are you so goddamn happy?” Holster grouched. On principle, he refused to thrash. 

“Why are you so goddamn misanthropic? Some girl or some dude dump you?” 

“No. But people are jerks.”

“Granted. But I’m not. And March isn’t.”

“Your status is variable.”

“I’ll put it on the spreadsheet. Look, my dude,” Ransom propped himself up on his elbows, suddenly serious. His eyes were so dark. “Do you think I should ask March to be exclusive?”

“If you want, bro. She makes you happy, right?” His voice didn’t shake, and nobody could hear his stomach lurch. 

“You’re the best.” Ransom kissed him on the forehead, a big sloppy smooch. “I’m going to wrap her Christmas gift in the bio notes with her name doodled all over them. Then I’ll ask her.” He leaped up.  

“You’re going to destroy your bio notes for her?” Maybe it was possible to hear a stomach lurch.  Holster rolled to his side.

“Bro. No, obviously. My rough bio notes. I don’t know that I want to marry her… well.” He grinned. “She’d look amazing in a wedding dress, though.”

“Keep that shit up and you’re going to have to fine yourself.”

“True. Going to shut up, going to go wrap that gift.”

“Dinner at the hall?” 

“For sure.”

 

He thumped up the stairs and Holster flopped to his back once again. He grabbed his phone; Aunt Marlene’s face smiled up at him still. 

 

You see,  Adam Birkholtz is bisexual. Very bisexual--an even fifty-fifty. The aura of his bisexuality floats around him like a forcefield; he’s an equal-opportunity lover. 

 

Just like his Aunt Marlene. She was the one who showed him that he wasn’t weird, or wrong, or broken. She’d given a name to the way he felt, and now she was gone and Justin Oluransi was going to be exclusive with someone else and it was Holster’s own damn fault. 

 

He’d chosen to shut the door on his attraction to Ransom for a few reasons, starting with Rans being the best bro ever and ending with...something. Anyhow, he’d made the decision, and he’d have to like it, because he wouldn’t go back on it. It was finals week and Ransom loved March, so no sense upsetting that apple cart, and frankly he was better off by himself with Ransom as his friend than estranged. If Dorothy Zbornak could do it, so could he.  

 

He flicked away Aunt Marlene’s picture, opening his browser to his latest reading material, porn. Well, “Porn”... a Willas Tyrell/Oberyn Martell AU--he couldn’t read Jack/Kent any more, too weird, but a life without fic--well, fic was the only thing keeping him sane. And Oberyn Martell, while hot, looks nothing like Justin Oluransi. 

 

Thank God. 

 

Holster turned out all the lights but the LED string on Lardo’s vaguely Christmas-tree shaped sculpture (“What am I, a fucking monster, bro? Bitty asked for something to decorate. Just don’t tell my art bros.”) and arranged himself half-on and half-off the couch to read. 

 

The quick footsteps jolted him out of the story before Oberyn had even kissed Willas.

“Rans?” he called, sitting up.

“Adam!” The voice sounded oddly familiar. 

“Lardo?”

“Adam, for goodness sakes.”

He whipped his head around to see the silhouette of a middle-aged woman in the door.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “But are you looking for…”

“You’ve gotten bigger but your brain hasn’t, clearly,” said the woman. “It’s me.”

A chill chased its way down Holster’s spine.

“Aunt Marlie?”

“In the.. No. Not in the flesh, but in spirit, yessir.”

“That’s not possible.”

“I guarantee it.”

“Indigestion. It’s probably those leftovers I had for lunch. Bitty warned me.”

“You’re not hallucinating. Listen up, kiddo: you need to tell your beautiful boy upstairs how you feel.”

“Ugh.” Holster sank back on the couch, “Are you telling me you came back from the fucking grave to tell me to try and ruin the best thing in my life?”

“Mouthy. And I came back from the fucking grave to tell you to take the damn risk.”

“I’ve made my decision. It’s the right decision. He’s happy. I’m happy, mostly.”

“You’re miserable, and a miserable brat.”

He had to laugh. Whether she was really a ghost or just the physical manifestation of some nasty barbecue, it was nice to hear her voice.

“Fine, I’m a miserable brat.”

“And a disgrace to the family.”

“Mhm, I thought that was you.”

She snorted. 

“Nope. It’s you.”

“Harsh.”

“I’m trying to change your stubborn mind for your own good.”

“I won’t change it. But I appreciate it. I guess.”

“Whatever. Ignore your favourite aunt. But I warn you, if you don’t change your mind, there will be consequences.”

“Yeah, I know. Living alone, nobody to tell me there’s Dorito powder on my ass, only occasional visits with the love of my life.”

She looked at him speculatively.

“Not exactly,” she said, “You’re messing with a bigger force than me.”

“Okay then.” Holster rolled his eyes.    
“I’m serious. You will be visited by three spirits, and if you do not change your mind, you will become bitter and alienated.”

“I am bitter and alienated.”

“It’s only the tip of the iceberg. I love you, button.” she said, her voice softening. “Love yourself.”

Her tone--and the old endearment--gave him pause, but he couldn’t help himself. 

“I was trying to love myself,” he said, gesturing to his phone. “I hope the ‘spirits’ won’t interrupt.”

She laughed at that, but her face was still pensive.

“Listen to them,” she said, as she faded out. 

Holster leapt up but the main floor of the Haus was completely, creepily empty, except for the shower running. He wondered if Ransom was behind this, or… the ghosts? Rans insisted they were there, though Holster had never seen them.

 

“Looking for someone?” came a strong Australian voice from behind him. He whirled around, heart racing, to see a middle-aged woman looking at him with a smile. 

“Who are you?”

“I,” she said, “am the Spirit of Fangirls Past.”

“The what?” Holster shook his head. 

“You heard me, boyo. The Spirit of Fangirls Past.” She brandished a yellowing paper. “I mean, it’s quite silly of them to get me to do it, I’m not the only one, but I suppose everything needs a figurehead.”

“Is that … Spock? Kissing Kirk?” 

“It is indeed.”

“But ‘ _ fangirls _ past.’? Why me?”

“Because you are being a prawn.”

“A prawn.”

“An idiot.”

“About Ransom. Yes, that does seem to be a popular subject of discussion today, but it’s my own damn business, all right?”

“Not exactly. I mean, it is, and if you didn’t love him, we’d leave you alone, but you do, and so we’re not. Now, grab this and come along. We don’t have all night.”

Holster took the yellowed paper gingerly.  He stared as his feet left the floor and held his breath as the spirit marched briskly through the wall of the Haus and up above Samwell. Snowflakes flew, faster and faster; one flew up his nose and he sneezed. He didn’t feel the cold, though, oddly enough. Just a sense of foreboding--and irritation.

 

“Almost there,” the spirit said, and sure enough, they were slowing, coming down through more clouds that lay so close against the earth that he did not see where they were until their feet had touched the ground. 

“Recognize it?”

“Bro.” 

“I assume that means yes.”

“It’s the house I grew up in; we moved away when I was fifteen.” He saw the red plaid curtains of his own bedroom, outlined in the same Christmas lights his parents put on their new house now.

“It’s 2005,” the spirit said. 

“The year Aunt Marlie bought me those rockin’ hockey gloves I wanted!”

“And she brought you something else, too.” The spirit tugged at him, and they were in the den downstairs. 

Holster had to stop for a moment, overwhelmed by memory. It smelled just the same--laundry soap, dryer lint, Christmas cookies, and, if he stretched his mind just a little, Cool Ranch Doritos. He’d watched so many movies and tv shows down here; on that couch… wait, someone was on that couch.

“Recognize him?” the spirit asked.

The shock of blond hair and the too-broad shoulders were unmistakeable. There he was, his younger self, folded in knots on the ratty couch, face rapt before the television. 

“That’s the most bizarre thing, seeing myself. Was I really that awkward?” 

“Can’t say. I want you to look at what you’re watching.”

Holster looked  and hesitated, although he didn’t have to. He knew by the profile and the bare chest--and by the jolt at the base of his belly--that it was  _ Alexander _ , and that if Colin Farrell flexed anything he was going to have a problem. Pavlovian, he thought. He’d jerked off so many times to that movie. 

“It was important, was it not? To see that? A great leader that goes both ways?”

“I know representation matters,” he answered, shortly. 

“It’s not the only thing that matters. Come.”

Holster grabbed the paper without hesitation that time; he was afraid to see what his younger self might start to do.

This time, the trip was much shorter, but it was also what he was expecting. He shrank from landing and from the smell of Cinnabon in his nostrils.

“Look over there.” the spirit said.

“I know where to look,” he snapped, and he did, but he didn’t want to. His fingers flexed in his pocket, as though he could feel the gift there even today. 

Across the food court, his younger self--older now, sixteen and even ganglier, if possible, than he had been at 13--stood with several friends. He seemed confident, but Holster knew what lurked underneath. Painfully, he watched the other boys peel away from the group until only Holster and another boy, slim and dark-haired, remained. Holster’s hand went to his pocket with a renewal of nervous energy. 

“Please, can we go?”

“Not yet,” the spirit said, “Look.” 

“I don’t need to.” Holster said. 

“He’s beautiful.”

“He was funny and smart.”

“And?” 

“I see what I did!” Holster burst out,  “I can see myself, standing there like an idiot, alone, with the fucking gift card that I never fucking gave him, okay? And I can see him looking back at me and I know it now, what I missed.”

“Let’s go then,” she said gently. “Back to the house, and Ransom.”

“That’s not much of a segue. You still think I should go ahead,” Holster stated flatly, “even if I mess things up?”

“Look, I’m not telling you what to do,” she said. “But, like Kirk and Spock, it’s all there.”

 

The Haus was silent when they landed, and Holster was grateful. He wanted to be alone; the weight of that lost moment had bothered him since Jacob Rensselaer had walked away from him silently. 

“I’m going now. The second spirit--spirits--will be here at the stroke of one.”

“What are they going to do, show me a montage of every goddamn time I pushed Ransom away?”

The spirit laughed. 

“They might do that, sport, although they might also surprise you. Now finish your story.” She gestured to his phone.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“More than you think. Ta-ta.”

“Bye. I guess.”

Holster thumped down, almost ready to throw his phone out of petulance, but then he remembered that Oberyn is stalking Willas like an antelope, which, while purple, means there’ll definitely be some good stuff up ahead. Plus there was no point in going upstairs; he couldn’t bear to watch Ransom wrap gifts for March. He settled back and opened his phone.

 

It wasn’t until he was nearly done that he heard something--not a single voice, but many, approaching him in a confused cacophony. He stood up, but he couldn’t see a thing.

“There he is!”

“He really is tall.”

“Those shoulders! Is it wrong to be turned on by a comic?”

“Cool it! He can hear you.”   
“I’m sorry. I’ll be respectful.”

“I know. Okay, let’s do it.”

Holster shook his head, polished his glasses, and looked around again. 

“Hello?” he said, his voice feeling unusually loud in the now-quiet Haus.

“Hi!” The voices were still coming from an indistinct location, but when Holster shook his head again, he could see...them?

“Hi!” A chorus now, and shapes all around him. Holster’s first impression was of multiplicity--many women, of all sizes, most of them with glasses, and nearly all of them with multicoloured hair, from flaming red to blonde and purple. 

“Hello.” 

“Adam Birkholtz” intoned one sepulchurally. Then she cracked up, her long, curly, thick hair falling around her face. 

“Rolly!” 

“I can’t help it.” Her dimples were charming, and Holster grinned at her. 

“Nobody blames you.” Another woman, in a fabulous green dress. “Hi, Holster.”

“Thanks, Ester,” Rolly said.

“Hello,” nods a tall woman with a Penguins cap and a kickass lipstick game. 

“Nice cap,” Holster said, and she nodded, “But don’t you think Fleury is a little overrated?”

“HE IS NOT!” exclaimed a smaller woman, pushing her way to the front, her short dark hair crackling with static. 

“Okay, okay,” Holster said, “He’s a lot overrated.”

“Those are fighting words!” she replied, but someone else--tall and chunky, with glasses and blue streaks in her brown hair, though that described at least two people in the room--raised her eyebrows. 

“Turifer, we’re here for something else.” 

Turifer looked unconvinced, but subsided. “Fine, Rhyo, but he’s very wrong.”

“We know you think so,” Rhyo said, laughing just a bit.

“Adam Birkholtz, we are the Spirits of Fangirls Present,” said a short blond woman. “And we are super excited to be here. Super excited!”  Her smile was nice--super wide, Holster thought, and he smiled back, mostly unforced. 

“So, fangirls. Fangirls of what?”

“Lots of things.” said someone with very short, very red hair and fabulous earrings. 

“Like you,” said Rhyolight. 

“Except we don’t write RPF about our friends.” said a short one with teal and navy hair. A second woman with teal streaks choked with laughter. “Oh, excuse me, Red, unless we do.”

“It’s  _ gen _ .”

“That pseudonym was a secret.” Holster stuttered. It had been one tiny ficlet, just before he’d met Jack.

“Not to us,” said the redhead (whose name was not Red, apparently, but Suze). 

“Ok, but... don’t tell Jack, okay?”

“It’s not for him. Fangirls hang together.”A man’s voice this time.  

“Johnson?” There he was, taller than anyone except the woman in the Pens hat.

“Hey, man.”

“Johnson, you’re a fangirl?” 

“Yes and no.” Johnson said, and gestured towards one of the women. “I’m an intermediary of sorts. Who do you think told them about your aunt?”

“How did you know I had an aunt?”

“Just go with it, bro. These spirits know their shit--in love and hockey.”

“Thanks, man,” Turifer said. Rolly nodded, and a few fistbumps were exchanged.

“Time is passing,” said the woman with blond and purple hair. “We must go.” She held out her hands and the spirits surrounded him; to Holster’s surprise he did not need to touch them to float away. It felt as though he was buoyed by a warm cushion of enthusiasm and community--odd, to him, but Johnson’s face reassured him.

They passed through the walls of the Haus, rising high above Samwell. At first, the darkness surrounded them, but as they rose, the light grew and the air warmed. When the sun was high in the sky, they began to float down towards the Haus again. 

“Today is Haus Christmas 2016. We will show you the state of things, for you to reflect,” said the same woman, kindly.

“Good job, Emma,” Rolly whispered in a pig’s whisper, and she and the apparently irrepressible Turifer giggled. 

“Thank you,” Emma said, completely undisturbed, and pointed down. “Your attic.”

They had, while this byplay went on, floated down through the Haus roof, and were hovering somewhere in the attic (thankfully, there were neither roaches nor people visible). He looked for himself, first, and saw only one leg sticking out from his bunk. 

Ransom, however, was completely visible--or near enough that Holster had to take a deeper breath. His chest was bare, as were his legs; only his hips were covered by his tatty Maple Leafs blanket. 

“Well, hellooooo there,” said the small blond spirit.

“See something you like, Tippy?” Rhyolight asked.

“I see something Holster likes.”

“We’re supposed to be helping.”   
“This isn’t helping? I’m amplifying his feelings. Like a Greek chorus with chirping.”   
“Crossover!” someone else whispered, and everyone laughed.

A loud snore--his own, Holster realized, from the him that was in the bunk--silenced everyone, and, as one fangirl, they looked at the top bunk. 

Ransom was awake. His eyes were open and he was smiling.

The sleeping Holster snored again. Ransom suppressed a giggle. 

“I see what you’re thinking, but he always thinks it’s hilarious when I snore.” 

“Keep looking” was all Emma said.

Ransom ducked over the side of the bed and looked down at the bottom bunk, an action that Holster had seen so many times he could almost do it himself. 

Except…(“here it comes,” hissed the redhead) Ransom’s arm dropped, and his fingers brushed along Holster’s bare knee. Sleeping Holster jerked, and Ransom flipped back onto his own bunk. He was breathing hard, and his stomach rose and fell. 

Holster couldn’t tear his eyes away from Ransom’s face.  He had seen that expression before--when Rans looked at March, yes, but also…

“See?” Ester said. “That’s real.” Holster couldn’t answer, and they hung silently there for a moment. 

“Fine,” he said finally, “What else?” 

Johnson patted his shoulder, and at Emma’s nod, they rose into the air again. This time, they hovered above campus until the sun was at its highest point, then descended into the Haus kitchen. It was unoccupied except for a trim bottom sticking out of some cupboards, which meant that it wasn’t unoccupied at all.

“BITTY.” said one of the women with navy and purple hair--Maple? Holster wondered, a little crazily, just how many Canadians were involved here.

“Amazing.” said the other one with the same blue hair, a stocky woman. “That ass!”

“And we haven’t even seen Jack’s, Tea.” 

“True.”

“It’ll destroy all your expectations.” Holster said, “It’s just that good.”

“Do quarters bounce on it?” Tea asked.

“Ask Shitty,” Holster said. “We had a contest one time. Rans’ bounced higher.”

“I’m ascending,” sighed someone--Red? Rhyo? Rami? Holster couldn’t tell.

“So was Holster,” said Rolly, and everyone laughed. 

“And the quarter.”

“Shh! Someone’s coming.”

“It’s not Holster.”

“TURIFER.”

 

“Bitty?” 

“IT’S CHOWDER!” Quiet, but definitely Red this time.

“Chowder! You’re up early.” Bitty withdrew from the cupboard smoothly, though he was holding three cooling racks and a muffin tin. “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas! Well, merry Haus Christmas! It’s such a great day! Are you making breakfast?”

“Honey, does Santa wear red? Of course. But if you’re hungry there are some cranberry pies from last night.”

“No. But…”

“Spit it out.”

(“That’s what he said” whispered Holster--in unison with Emma, to his suprise. He caught her eye and they both laughed.)

“Holster looks sad.” Chowder’s face was a worried study. “Is he sad because of Ransom and March?”

Bitty sighed. 

“You heard us talking about that, did you? If he is, there’s nothing we can do about it. He’s made his choice.”

“But Ransom…”

“I know,” Bitty said, slamming a pound of butter onto the counter. “You think I don’t? But he has to work it out.”

“I guess.” Chowder ran his hands through his already-messy hair. “I just want them to be happy.”

“Me too.” 

“And it would be like those comedies that Holster likes.”

“That’s a little much to hope for, but we can always cross our fingers.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing else. Ransom and March are good together, and maybe Holster will get over himself eventually and tell Rans how he feels.”

“Hey!” Holster exclaimed. Neither Bitty nor Chowder reacted, but there was a titter from the spirits.

“He’s not wrong,” Emma said. 

“Okay, okay. I get it. My big sacrifice is just shooting myself in the foot.”

“Or the dick.” Maple said. 

“Thanks for that. Why are Canadians never on my side?”

“We are,” she answered. “Enough to tell you when you’re being a fool.”

“Let’s move on,” Emma said, “We have one more stop. Holster, hold my hand.”

“Why?” 

“We’re breaking the fourth wall on this one,” Rami explained. “We need to be closer.”

Holster took Emma’s hand, and the other spirits crowded in. Johnson reached around them all--how, Holster could not fathom--and they floated out through a series of white bars to a dim living room.

No, multiple dim living rooms. They reflected out one upon the other, lit only by the glow of screens, some big, some small, and on each screen Holster saw his own face. Hundreds of faces, young and old, looked back at him.

“Well, fuck.” he said. “That’s not creepy at all.”

“You’re important.” Rami said. 

“My personal decisions shouldn’t have this kind of consequence. I can only decide how I want to live my own life.”

“But they do.” 

“I didn’t ask for this!”

“We know. And if you weren’t unhappy with your own decision, you wouldn’t be here,” she said gently. 

“Your aunt helped you be who you are. It’s your turn,” added Maple. 

“It’s win-win,” said Emma. “You get the man you want and bisexuality gets a boost.”

“But what about…”

“Look,” said Johnson--or was it Red? Why couldn’t he tell the difference suddenly? “It’s true that this whole thing is pretty unfair to March, because Rans really does care for her and she for him, and putting female characters aside so two cis men can get together is for sure problematic.”

“Exactly,” Holster crossed his arms. “Why do I have to do it?”

“It comes down to character development.” Definitely Johnson.

“And we’ll gladly ship March with someone else, don’t worry.” Rami added. “George, maybe?”

“Lardo!” 

“Oh, good idea.”

“Not Farmer?”

“Who the hell would mess with Chowder/Farmer?”

“Poly, obv.”

“I’d ship myself with March.”

“You’d ship yourself with anyone.”

“So? It’s called being sex-positive.”

Holster wonders if it’s his destiny to be a misanthrope surrounded by idiots. Friendly, nice idiots, but idiots. 

“We are not idiots,” Turifer said.

“What?” Had that been out loud?

She pointed. A thought bubble stood over his head. 

“Can we get out of here?”

“Maybe.” Emma grinned. “Unless you want to start thinking about Ransom’s bubble...”

“I do not.” he said firmly. 

“Everyone in,” Johnson said.  

 

Holster felt his feet touch the floor of the Haus living room with immeasurable relief. 

“You guys can cancel the third spirit,” he said. “I can manage.”

“We wouldn’t dare,” said Maple.

“She’s terrifying,” Rami added. 

“For real,” said Rhyolight. “Just do what she says. And don’t forget us, buddy.”

“Think of what you’ve seen,” said Suze.

“Carpe fucking booty!” Turifer exclaimed. 

“It’ll turn out okay, man,” Johnson said. “Get your guy, protect your goalie, and fuck the patriarchy.”

“Thanks, guys. I think.”

They nodded in unison, but faded back out in bits and pieces. The last thing he saw of them was flashes of hair colour; the last thing he heard from them was a round of their combined laughter. 

 

He settled himself to wait for the third spirit with trepidation. 

“Why can I see these narrative transitions now, Johnson, you fucker?”

She appeared before he could wait more than a moment.

“I see what you’re doing.”

“Adam Birkholtz,” came a tiny voice, “I am the Spirit of Fangirls Yet to Come.”

He looked down. There was a tiny girl, with dark eyes and shiny, shiny nut-brown hair, standing at the foot of the couch. 

“This keeps getting creepier.”

“You think this is fucking creepy?” she said. It was infinitely disturbing in her sweet voice. 

“That didn’t make it less creepy.”

“I’m not here to make you comfortable. Take my hand.”

He did. He couldn’t not. The present spirits had been right--she was terrifying. 

This time there was no rising or falling, no gentle transition from the Haus to their destination. Instead, as soon as Holster’s large hand engulfed the spirit’s, they appeared in a bedroom, presumably hers. 

Holster hadn’t been in a kid’s bedroom for a while, but he liked this one. It was painted in blue and green, and the walls were covered with hockey posters and pictures of kittens. The bed was a violent jumble of pink; he counted at least a dozen stuffies. Two or three naked Barbies lay on the plush rug. 

“Nice, right?”

“It’s awesome,” Holster said, bending to examine the miniature equipment in the tiny hockey bag. “How is this so small?”

“Leave it.” she ordered. “Look here instead.” She indicated a dollhouse in the corner of the room. 

“Cool!” he said, and kneeled to look in. A family was sitting around the dining table; he tried to make out the faces of the dolls, but he could not.

“If you do not follow your heart, Adam Birkholtz, this is the future,” said the little girl, waving her hand. Immediately, the dollhouse multiplied, and each family was exactly the same. Some of them had very, very sad faces. Holster jumped back.

“You’re kidding.”

“I am not. Look at this fucking uniformity. It’s so fucking heteronormative I want to puke.” She mimed vomiting into her hockey bag.

“It’s terrible, but give me a break. I’m not personally responsible for perpetuating heteronormativity. I`m out already--the guys and half the campus know, my family knows. How does me telling Rans how I feel address the structural issues of LGBTQ rights?”

“It doesn’t. Hey, you think I don’t terrorize lawmakers and bigots on the regular? But I am after you to be true to yourself because a) you’re so in love it’s fucking nauseating, and b) you’re in a safe place to make that love happen.”

“Yeah, I know. Privilege, etc.” He sat on her bed so they were eye-to-eye. “But what if it’s too late? Rans used his bio notes for her Christmas gift.”

“His rough bio notes. You know what that means.”

“I’m not making some big love confession and breaking them up.”

“You don’t have to. Yet. But let me show what the future will hold if you do not.” She snapped her fingers, and the figures in the two nearest houses changed. Holster peered closer. In one house it was himself, his arm around a faceless black-haired woman; in the other house, Ransom sat with a beautiful baby on his lap as a tall woman rummaged under a tree. 

“We look...okay?” he ventured. A little child had just come toddling out from around the couch in ‘his’ house, and he watched with fascination. “That looks okay.”

“Oh, it’s okay,” said the spirit. “But is okay enough? Watch.” The Ransom figure, Holster saw, was dialing his phone. Tiny Holster’s phone rang (“From Taylor Swift’s 40th birthday album” the spirit said), and the look on his face when he answered was radiant. 

“How do you look now?”

Holster’s stomach dropped into his shoes.

“Happy,” he said. “I look happy.”

“See? Soul mates,” the spirit said.

“Well, fuck me,” he said, biting his lip. “That is a fucking terrible situation.”

“It is. So don’t be that guy.”

“I won’t. I won’t. Just, let me go back.”

“You sure? I could show you more.”

“No. Please. Have pity. I’ll do what I have to to make my feelings clear to Rans.”

“I know you can.” Her tone was suddenly gentle, and that terrified Holster more than anything. “Let us go.” He reached for her hand, but she was gone and he was in the Haus. He sank into the couch, hands shaking.

Ransom. He could, if he wanted, have Ransom, and it wouldn’t mess up their friendship or the fact they were the best bros ever. All that friendship and dat ass, too, he thought, laughing, and he thought he heard an echo of fangirl laughter back at him. 

 

So, here our tale concludes. You should know, however, that Holster did not immediately declare his love to Ransom; nor did Ransom throw over March when he realized Holster’s manner had changed towards him. 

“Wait, ‘Throw over’, Johnson? You sound like a Victorian novel.”

Holster rolled his eyes.

“I didn’t roll my eyes.”

You did, and it’s not Johnson.

“Do I want to know who it is?”

No.

“Asshole.”

Very likely.

“Look, can you just get on with it? I want to go talk to Ransom.”

Fine.

 

However, time worked its magic, and the Christmas of 2018 saw Ransom and Holster side by side at Holster’s parents’ house, and they rang in the new year in their own crappy apartment in New York. This eventually became a pleasant house in Ottawa, and by 2030, they sat around their Christmas table with beautiful children of their own, and many presents under the tree. 

One final addendum: When Shitty and Lardo’s daughter was born, she was perfect, but when Holster held her for the first time, he felt a sharp sense of recognition when her dark eyes met his. It became sharper a year later when Shitty told him, with great pride, that her first word had been “Fuck.”    
Holster rushed out and bought the nicest dollhouse he could find, with dolls that looked as much like himself and Ransom as he could manage. Sometimes, when she played with them, Holster could hear his Aunt Marlie’s voice in hers, and it made him smile.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The Spirit of Fangirls Past is, of course, Diane Marchant, author of the first Kirk/Spock fic.
> 
> I headcanon the dolls Holster bought as Wayne Gretzky and P.K. Subban.
> 
> The Game of Thrones fic in question is "Porn", by AsbestosMouth, and it's pretty fun: http://archiveofourown.org/works/8268298


End file.
